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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608008">curse breaking</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allicanseeispink/pseuds/allicanseeispink'>allicanseeispink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>a magnitude of vulnerability [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempt at Humor, Established Relationship, Fluff, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Time Skip, angst so light it's barely there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:48:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allicanseeispink/pseuds/allicanseeispink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearing the fourth hour of the silent treatment, Kiyoomi’s already frayed nerves began to whittle down to their last fibers. </p><p>Today, it was raining. A proper Tokyo monsoon tantrum just shy of a full-blown typhoon that left puddles on sidewalks and fell from an angle so wicked it eluded umbrellas. It was raining and they haven’t spoken in almost four hours.</p><p>(In which Sakusa wanders into the minefield that is Atsumu's feelings and tries not to blow things up.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>a magnitude of vulnerability [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974205</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>990</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>inspired by <a href="https://twitter.com/bratsumu/status/1231021731109838848">this amazing cc answer</a> by bratsumu, who is also on here as <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy">astroeulogy</a>.</p><p>i stole sakusa's smile from <a href="https://twitter.com/andraste_/status/1243317017677004802">this tweet</a> by andraste_, who is also on here as <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastigod">bastigod</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nearing the fourth hour of the silent treatment, Kiyoomi’s already frayed nerves began to whittle down to their last fibers. </p><p>He calls it silent treatment, but the apartment is far from it—he can hear Atsumu’s every move, prattling around the kitchen. Atsumu was cooking.</p><p>Water pooling into fan-like cabbage leaves, then overflowing, passing through the sifter, dripping on the sink. Three steps, a drawer opening. There’s a clatter of utensils and kitchen tools knocking together because Atsumu <em> rifles </em> through drawers instead of opening them and looking for what he needs. The chopping board being placed on the counter. The muffled thud of a knife lodging into the tight clump of the cabbage’s center—then, a pause—before it hits the chopping board as the cabbage breaks apart. Again, <em> one, two, three, four </em>more times. </p><p>The home speaker, slotted beside the old, bulky coffee maker on counter one of their impressive-for-Tokyo three-counter kitchen, was bemoaning a six percent drop in household spending across the country. It struck Kiyoomi that this is the first time it’s been called upon to broadcast anything that isn’t one of Atsumu’s obsessively curated instrumental playlists.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“This one’s for cooking,” Atsumu had said three weeks ago over the low thrum of music streaming out of their sentient home speaker the morning after they first moved in together. (All the playlists Atsumu made sounded like the same indistinguishable lo-fi hip hop beats to study and relax to 24/7 stream to Kiyoomi, but their quality of life as Kiyoomi-and-Atsumu fared better if he kept this to himself.) </p><p><em> You can barely cook without me</em>, Kiyoomi thought, fond.</p><p>They pulled at all-nighter unpacking as many boxes as they could, both too stubborn to admit that moving at the tail end of the V. League season hadn’t been their best idea.</p><p>Then Atsumu unanimously decided he would make them breakfast. He was whisking batter that he was confident would turn into pancake souffle. “Whisking,” he said sagely, “is about the torque.” </p><p>“So wise,” Kiyoomi replied, deadpan. “Must be something Osamu said.” </p><p>Because Kiyoomi believed that the end result turned out only at least as good as the effort one poured into the process, he did not share his boyfriend’s confidence on the fate of the batter. Atsumu wasn’t even looking at the bowl. His mood was apparently so good he benevolently let the Osamu quip slide without comment. His head was turned to stare at Kiyoomi.</p><p>Kiyoomi was staring right back while awaiting blessings from the gurgling coffee maker, ignoring the globs of batter hanging at the lip of the bowl as Atsumu kept whisking, distracted. (It made him feel weightless, being able to ignore mess.) </p><p>Dawn was breaking, and the sun shining through screened windows of the kitchen threw lattice shadows over Atsumu’s face. He was smirking, still inexplicably smug about his music taste and cooking skill, but for once the expression was soft on him, his eyes kind. </p><p>The coffee maker was a hand-me-down from Atsumu’s mother, a Braun purchased when the twins were born in preparation for the sleepless nights she foresaw. It had acquired an impressive cacophony of noises through its years of service. As Kiyoomi watched the lattice shadows shift across Atsumu’s cheek when his smirk broke into a smile, it seemed to sigh. </p><p><em> Same</em>, Kiyoomi thought, helpless to the bloom of warmth growing in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Today, it was raining. A proper Tokyo monsoon tantrum just shy of a full-blown typhoon that left puddles on sidewalks and fell from an angle so wicked it eluded umbrellas. </p><p>It was the first day of their off-season, early enough into the break that Kiyoomi excused himself from his morning run. (He tamped down unwelcome sensation of tight, damp sneakers unpleasantly squelching, depositing damp into equally soaking socks every time he takes a step.<em> I’m inside</em>, he thought. <em> I’m okay</em>.) </p><p>It was raining and they haven’t spoken in almost four hours.</p><p>Kiyoomi was in their bedroom, (which was not a room but a mezzanine. Other than the bathroom and toilet, their apartment had no separate rooms. Atsumu had been so taken by the open space loft floor plan, wide windows, mezzanine and all, he started pointing to spots they’d put their furniture and Kiyoomi’s plants before the realtor even said anything. </p><p>Atsumu walked to the middle of the space. The sunlight streaming from the windows made his bleach-damaged hair shine. It was either that or love. </p><p>“Omi-omi! Now <em> this </em>is a Tokyo apartment!” </p><p>Kiyoomi was too taken by Atsumu’s enthusiasm and his misconceptions about Tokyo apartments to refuse. Out loud, he said, “So long as the bath and toilet are separate, it’s fine with me.” </p><p>Atsumu beamed.) </p><p>Kiyoomi was in their bedroom. He was seated on his side of the bed, his back turned away from the kitchen below, absently flipping through the first compilation volume of a <em>Weekly Biz </em>witch manga. Bokuto had given it to him last night, bragging that Akaashi had helped Sato-sensei, apparently a famous mangaka, develop the new series.</p><p>So he was determined. He was going to finish this book. <em>If only</em>, he thought, dismal, <em>I could fucking focus</em>.</p><p>Kiyoomi hadn’t read manga in years. </p><p>(When they were 15, he and Komori decided to read every volume of <em>One Piece</em> available in the local library. They worked their way through the series until the last completed arc, weeks of reading over one another’s shoulders after volleyball practice later. His goal reached, Kiyoomi had sworn off reading any more ongoing manga, period.</p><p>He didn’t even look at the magazine racks in the grocery to avoid the temptation. He craved completeness, endings, yet could not bring himself to commit to reading a new chapter every week for the rest of his young adulthood. So he didn’t bother.)</p><p>He knew but refused to admit that this unverbalized morass of emotions swarming their apartment, his refusal to walk downstairs, had nothing to do with the manga.</p><p>From the kitchen, he could hear a cupboard opening, closing. Something metal clanking on the counter (<em>a baking tray?</em>). The Bank of Japan remains steadfast in its yield curve control policy, despite the deepening recession. Two turns of the pepper grinder, the central bank commits to buy whatever amount of bonds the market wants to supply at its target price, the oven door slamming shut. </p><p>Kiyoomi, incredulous, thought, <em> slamming? </em>Atsumu’s Mood refused to lose even to the weeping sky.</p><p>Sometime between 9:13 this morning—when Kiyoomi rolled out of bed to low, gray clouds in the sky and the covers beside him either impeccably made or untouched (he doesn’t want to think too hard about it)—and right now, he had become one of the characters in Akaashi’s manga. </p><p>He could hear every little sound in the apartment made by its only other occupant. The fridge door opening, more loud rifling inside the crisper drawer, Atsumu tapping his foot to the monotone drone of business news. (Ah, that familiar, blooming warmth again.) </p><p>Kiyoomi’s heart was broadcasting a honing sonar to the beat of his pulse, and it kept pinging back every time Atsumu moved.</p><p>
  <em> Last night. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Last night, they were standing on court. Kiyoomi felt as tense as a docked bow, his eyes honed to the ball hurtling towards him. </p><p>“Mine!” he called, before lunging to receive the vicious spike from Washio Tatsuki. The ball flew up. </p><p>Atsumu darted towards the net and leaped. He dumped the ball over.</p><p>It landed right into Suna Rintaro’s waiting palm with a thump. It tipped over the net. </p><p>Hinata dove to receive it, but he was a millisecond too late. </p><p>The ball hit the floor. </p><p>The referee blew the final whistle.</p><p>Last night, the MSBY Black Jackals lost the V. League semi final to the EJP Raijin.</p><p>While the Raijin were jubilant across the net, their team on court gathered around Atsumu and Hinata and said, “Don’t mind.” </p><p>Kiyoomi did too. He pressed his palm on the space between Atsumu’s shoulder blades. Atsumu turned to look at him with a watery smile.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Last night, the clouds dipped low in the sky, obscuring the moon. The streetlights seemed to glow brighter. The night air prickled with the promise of petrichor. Kiyoomi could smell it even through his mask. He could forgive the thick humid air pressing down on his skin if it would rain soon. </p><p>(At the peak of Tokyo’s cruel summer, walking outside the safe cocoon of air conditioning felt like swimming upright through permeable slime. The thought of it made him shudder.) </p><p>Atsumu, beside him, silently pressed his shoulder to Kiyoomi’s jacketed arm.</p><p>Oblivious to Kiyoomi’s thoughts, Meian said, “It’s going to rain soon.” </p><p>Hinata, who had not said a single word since they all got together after leaving the stadium, stretched his hand out as if to catch raindrops.</p><p>Atsumu laughed. “Shouyou-kun, he said <em>soon</em>. It’s not rainin’ right now.” </p><p>Kiyoomi could not feel the usual quiver of Atsumu’s shoulder when he really laughed. So, he concluded, this was one of Atsumu’s throat laughs, a sound he expelled to be polite or annoying, whichever suited his purpose. Kiyoomi thought, <em>Which one is it tonight? </em></p><p>Beside Hinata, Kageyana tried but failed to fight back a smile. “Dumbass,” he said. (<em>The fondness he could put behind that word</em>, Kiyoomi pondered. Did <em>he</em> sound like that when he—) </p><p>Hinata forgot about his vow of silence and croaked an insult back, his face bright red. They devolved into bickering, which Kiyoomi easily tuned out. </p><p>Meian ignored their mating ritual and said, “Let’s head in.” </p><p>The MSBY Black Jackals—players, coaches, admin staff, assistants, interns, guests all—were slowly trickling inside a high end izakaya in small groups. This was their end-of-season party, organized by the PR and Events team.</p><p>It was past 10 PM. They had a reservation, but an apologetic waitress had earlier explained that they’d have to wait for some of the Friday night crowd to disperse to get everyone inside. Once the more callous patrons who lingered too long took their leave, the Jackals and Staff could come inside one by one to fill up the empty seats. </p><p>A drunk, happy trio of middle aged office workers, one of them wearing a necktie around his head as he chortled with his friends, had clumsily marched out of the izakaya leaning against one another. Meian pushed Hinata and Kageyama inside with him.</p><p>“Yeah, this place is fancy,” Bokuto, still outside with Kiyoomi-and-Atsumu, spoke into the phone pressed against his ear. He sounded excited. It was hard not to eavesdrop on Bokuto’s phone calls when his voice carried so far. “This is the sort of place that sells wagyu steak skewers, I can feel it.”</p><p><em>He doesn’t need to feel it</em>, Kiyoomi thought. <em>We’re literally in Ginza</em>.</p><p>“He doesn’t need ta feel it,” Atsumu said. “There’s a fucken BAPE store across the street.” </p><p>Kiyoomi smiled under his mask.</p><p>Bokuto didn’t hear because he’d skipped further away from the restaurant, his face flushed with joy. He was headed towards the station, phone still on his ear.</p><p>“It’s Akaashi,” Kiyoomi said.</p><p>“Must be Akaashi-san,” Atsumu had said at the same time.</p><p>He was aware of the comparisons made about him and Atsumu. The verdict seemed to be that they were alike. </p><p>People from high school saw them as two different flavors of jerk. (Komori texted him these things.)</p><p>Months ago, the four youngest Black Jackal starters appeared as guests in a talk show. Asked about their first impressions of one another after joining the team, Bokuto, his expression vacant of any resentment and his tone chipper, launched into the story of Atsumu bringing up his mid-match mood swings from high school. </p><p>Hinata perked up at hearing this and said, “Omi-kun did that to me too! He was like, ‘hey didn’t you take down your team at your first nationals because you had a fever?’ That was <em>years </em>ago!” The host looked at Hinata with wide eyes, nodding in sympathy. (The clip went viral. There were wild speculations about Kiyoomi-and-Atsumu’s domestic harmony by fans on Twitter.)</p><p>An assistant coach from the Tachibana Red Falcons, in the wake of her team losing to the Jackals and a much too self-satisfied post-match interview from Atsumu, called them “twin assholes.” She meant it. (Atsumu, delighted, said, “I already have an asshole twin and it’s not you, Omi-kun.”)  </p><p>They were all wrong. Kiyoomi was not like Atsumu in any significant way, except one.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Six weeks into dating, one apartment ago, Atsumu had invaded Kiyoomi’s kitchen. </p><p>He paused from what he passed for dicing and looked up to the printed recipe Kiyoomi had stuck with magic tape to the wall in front of him.</p><p>(“What the fuck, Omi-omi?” Astumu had asked. </p><p>“You are not allowed to touch your phone while preparing food.” Kiyoomi’s tone left no room for argument.)</p><p>“Agh, how d’ya even dice onions so nice!” Atsumu whined more than asked, his eyes watering. “And without fucken cryin’!” Kiyoomi’s chef’s knife looked comical, gripped so tightly in his large hand. </p><p>Kiyoomi stood over his shoulder, watching like a hawk. For once in his life, Atsumu Miya disliked the attention. “C’mon Omi-kun, yer killin’ me.” </p><p>He turned to Kiyoomi, brandishing the knife. “What’re ya even watching me for? Ya think I’m gonna eat raw onion off the board with my fingers?” </p><p>Kiyoomi, unimpressed, said, “You eat everything.”</p><p>Atsumu stilled. “<em>Fuck. Ya</em>,” with feeling. But when he spoke again, his voice was soft.</p><p>He said, “Omi-kun, I wanna make us somethin’.” </p><p>He meant,<em> Help me</em>. </p><p>“If I don’t help, are you gonna poison me?” Kiyoomi replied, expressionless. </p><p>Still, he felt himself being pulled to stand beside Atsumu. He reached for Atsumu’s hand. <em>To get the knife back</em>, he thought.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Outside the izakaya, Atsumu’s gaze turned to the glowing, hidden moon. It seems he’d lost interest in Bokuto’s secure love life.</p><p>“Look,” he said, nodding at the sky. “The sky’s pretty tonight, Omi-kun.”</p><p>Kiyoomi looked. Obscured by thick clouds, the pale light of the moon seemed to have broken into long, smoky, ephemeral ribbons bleeding out across the sky. <em>Pretty</em>, he agreed. </p><p>After they trooped back into the locker room, Atsumu had reverted to his usual practice of summoning a black aura with his sheer sullenness. But instead of parking himself in front of his locker, he sat beside Kiyoomi. <em>That</em> break in routine, more than sputtering out of the season despite having been favorites to face the Adlers in the finals, made Kiyoomi’s chest feel tight.</p><p>Since the game ended, he has been hyper aware of Atsumu. Now, their shoulders pressed together, he counted the minute rise and fall of Atsumu’s breathing. <em>Was it faster than normal? </em></p><p>Aloud, he asked, “What’s wrong, Atsumu?”</p><p>Instead of answering, Atsumu said, “Pretty like you.” His mouth bent into the shape of a smirk but the mischief didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze stayed on the sky.</p><p>For once in his life, Kiyoomi didn’t want to push.</p><p>He had yet to unravel how their loss made <em>him </em>feel. He hated losing. They heard ‘season favorites’ too often for it not to sting. Two of his serves were called by the line referees and he knows he could do better than that. </p><p>But as a team, he felt they did well. They’d practiced hard all season. <em>Atsumu </em>did well. </p><p>In the third set, Atsumu called, “Omi-omi!” and tossed the ball precariously close to the net. It seemed to wait there mid-air in the time it took Kiyoomi to whip his arm forward. It careened right in the middle of the opposite court.</p><p>Outside the izakaya, Kiyoomi stared at Atsumu. Under the orange glow of the streetlights, the shadows pooled on him in all the right places—his cheekbones, his jawline, the space between his bottom lip and chin, the hint of clavicle peeking out of his v-neck. His brown eyes appeared tinted with amber. Kiyoomi’s palms felt warm.</p><p>There was a spell at work here, perceptible only to the two of them. The world—the throng of passers-by, the scattered groups of Jackals staff still loitering outside, the muffled conversations and laughter from inside—seemed to fade away. Tokyo had emptied, except for them. </p><p>Kiyoomi knew instinctively that this moment, whatever it was, was filled with promise.</p><p>So he said, “Your tosses were excellent today.”</p><p>Atsumu snorted. “My <em>tosses</em>?” Finally, he looked away from the sky and turned to Kiyoomi, looking hurt.</p><p>Kiyoomi did not understand why.</p><p>When they met as first years at the All-Japan youth training camp, Atsumu preened from every compliment the spikers he’d bestowed with his tosses gave him.</p><p>Kiyoomi was too contrarian to indulge him. Atsumu noticed his restraint and spent the week pointedly giving him tosses that got better and better. On the last day, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but say, “Your tosses are so clean.” Atsumu had literally puffed up his chest.</p><p>In the decade since, Atsumu had made Kiyoomi reconsider every judgment he made from their first meeting but that one.</p><p>“Atsumu—” he started to say, but a woman emerged from the izakaya, the <em>noren</em> billowing open at her wake. Her heels clacked on the pavement. Then a second woman, much younger and carrying two handbags, ducked outside too. She speed walked after the first.</p><p>All at once, Tokyo breathed to life again. Kiyoomi had broken the spell.</p><p>“Let’s just go.” Atsumu was already walking towards the door.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Last night, two hours into the afterparty, Kiyoomi felt about three feet past the point of being buzzed. <em>Did that even make sense? </em></p><p>By his count, he’d drank two cold sakes and three beers. Though he wasn’t so sure of his count. When he tried to reach a thought in his mind, he had to keep reaching and reaching...</p><p>Because this was Ginza, there were sake bottles repurposed as lamps suspended from the ceiling. The hidden moon and low clouds outside felt far away. The restaurant was hermetically air conditioned. There was no prickle of humidity on his skin, and his jacket didn’t weigh him down with heat.</p><p>He was seated at a long table in the tatami portion of the izakaya with Atsumu across from him. Whatever it was he said wrong earlier, Atsumu still helped him wipe down the table with disinfectant wipes. Then he held a ziploc bag open with newly sanitized hands so Kiyoomi could drop his mask inside. Their shoes were lined up together somewhere in the corner. </p><p>Kageyama and Hinata were seated beside Kiyoomi, then Bokuto and Akaashi beside Atsumu.  Inunaki, the main culprit of Kiyoomi’s inebriation by the sheer amount of drinks he ordered, had been squeezed between Atsumu and Bokuto. He called for five rounds of commiseration drinks and skewers. (Kageyama, as a finalist, did not partake). Fifteen minutes ago though, he got up to leave, quipping, “I’m way too old and single for this table.”</p><p>As often happens when they’re all left alone together, they talked about their common ground: Stuff that happened in high school.</p><p>Hinata and Kageyama were wrapping up a story about a former teammate who became an open sea marlin fisherman with his own boat. Kiyoomi never met him, so his mind had wandered.</p><p>“I could never do it,” Atsumu said, taking a sip of his beer. “Can’t imagine livin’ without volleyball.”</p><p>“That’s true,” Kageyama said. There were affirmative hums around the table. Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if he joined in, but he agreed with the sentiment.</p><p>“Well <em>I’m</em> kind of jealous of him,” Akaashi said. “I had to pull back-to-back overtime this week.” Bokuto reached over to rub his back. </p><p>Then, as if he’d just remembered something, Bokuto turned to Kiyoomi and said “I was SO JEALOUS OF YOU!” His voice modulation problem was even worse when he was in close quarters and drinking.</p><p>“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmured. “Your voice is too loud.” Bokuto slapped his hand over his mouth, immediately repentant.</p><p>Kiyoomi didn’t know what to say, so he landed on, “Why?”</p><p>He did not keep track of the ‘top aces’ in high school who weren’t Wakatoshi. Ironically, had he been sober, he would have blurted this right out.</p><p>“I never got the invite to All-Japan,” Bokuto stage-whispered. It dawned on Kiyoomi that Bokuto was acting ridiculous, so he laughed. </p><p>There was a three second pause—then all at once, Bokuto and Hinata made a lot of noise.</p><p>Bokuto, back on his outside voice, said “OH MY GOD OMI-KUN!”</p><p>“OMI-SAN!” Hinata followed. “You have <em>dimples</em>!” </p><p>Kageyama’s mouth was an O and his phone was pointed at Kiyoomi. </p><p>Seeing him, Kiyoomi laughed harder. <em>Was it that funny?</em> He wanted to ask Atsumu so he looked across the table.</p><p>Atsumu had propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, staring at Kiyoomi. His eyes were dark, but his smile was soft and fond. His shoulders were shaking, too. <em>Good</em>, Kiyoomi thought. They hadn’t spoken to each other, not really, since...earlier.</p><p>“You’re so hot,” Kiyoomi blurted out.</p><p>On cue, Atsumu preened. “I know, babe.”</p><p>Now everyone at the table laughed. Kageyama, who’d put his phone away, placed his hand over his eyes like he wasn’t 21 years old and dating Hinata Shouyo. </p><p>“Did you congratulate Komori-san yet?” Kageyama asked him, probably to bring the conversation back to neutral territory.</p><p>Instead of replying, Kiyoomi held his phone up to everyone. He texted Komori <em>Congrats</em>. and got a <em>Thanks!</em> <em>٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ </em>back.</p><p>After reading it, Kageyama said, “I can’t believe he never mentioned you were cousins back in training camp.”</p><p>Hearing this, Bokuto remembered his earlier line of inquiry. “Aww man, am I the only one who never went to All-Japan here?” </p><p>Hinata raised his hand. “Me neither!” Bokuto gave him a high five.</p><p>“So what was it like?” Bokuto asked.</p><p><em>Training camp was like our regular days now</em>, Kiyoomi wanted to say. <em>We played a lot of volleyball. Atsumu was there.</em> But he couldn’t pluck his thoughts from his brain and deliver them to his mouth.</p><p>Not that he had to say anything. Atsumu and Kageyama took turns regaling Bokuto with in-depth comparisons between their training now as pros and back then in training camp in serious volleyballese. Apparently, Kiyoomi’s handle on volleyballese was conditioned on sobriety.</p><p>Bokuto fixated on the position shuffle practice games. “We should do that! It’ll be funny for exhibition matches.”</p><p>“You’d win,” Kageyama said, serious. “Because you have Hinata.” Beside him, Hinata seemed to glow.</p><p><em>Gross</em>, Kiyoomi thought.</p><p>“Gross,” Atsumu said, punctuating his point with retching noises. Kageyama blushed, embarrassed, but Hinata just flipped him the bird.</p><p>Kiyoomi implored his brain to think of something to say to change the topic, like Kageyama did earlier. He landed on, “I liked playing with you, Kageyama.”</p><p>Kageyama’s blush deepend. Hinata, teasing, bumped his shoulder to Kageyama’s.</p><p><em>Was that the right thing to say?</em> It was blessedly quiet in his head that night.</p><p>He kept going. “Your tosses were nice and you could do all those dumps. We should play together again.” He was picturing the exhibition match Bokuto proposed. </p><p>Atsumu suddenly got up.</p><p>“Aww Tsum-Tsum, you’re <em>leaving</em>?” Bokuto whined.</p><p>Atsumu said, “The last train’s coming soon.” </p><p>Once he said that, Kiyoomi’s clunky consciousness expanded beyond their single table. A lot of people were getting up. They all wanted to catch the train.</p><p>“But I can drive you and Sakusa-san home,” Kageyama offered. “You’re on the way.”</p><p><em>Yes,</em> Kiyoomi agreed. <em>Both of us. Home. Together. </em></p><p>Atsumu, already walking to where they’d carefully placed their shoes, only said, “Drive Omi-kun home, please.”</p><p>“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi called. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>The man didn’t look back. He stuffed his feet into his black slip-ons and turned to leave. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone. </p><p>He didn’t say <em>anything</em> to Kiyoomi.</p><p>“Umm,” Hinata said. Everyone at the table had fallen silent. Undetected by Kiyoomi, there had been a second spell cast that night. This time, Atsumu broke it himself.</p><p>An unfamiliar tightness dropped in Kiyoomi’s chest, ice cold. He remembered Komori’s lukewarm defense of him to a teammate once: “He’s the type to regret the things he says <em>sometimes</em>.”</p><p>Kiyoomi wanted to run after Atsumu. <em>Why can’t you say what you mean?</em> But his legs felt too heavy.</p><p>Akaashi, ever perceptive, made a valiant attempt to cut through the tension. He turned to Kiyoomi and asked, “Want another drink?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The day after, Kiyoomi had woken up at 9:13 AM to an empty bed, his head pounding. It was a blessing that the sky was so gray. Meian’s prophecy of rain had yet to come true.</p><p>The apartment was silent. Instinctively, Kiyoomi reached over to Atsumu’s side. It was cold and the sheets were perfectly made.</p><p>Kiyoomi’s chest felt tight. He vaguely remembered struggling up the stairs before falling in bed, but was Atsumu with him?</p><p>Then he heard the front door opening. As if summoned, Atsumu walked inside. He was wearing his black lycra running shorts that clung to his thighs. Suddenly awake, Kiyoomi rolled out of bed and made his way downstairs. </p><p>Atsumu was pumping hand sanitizer—the one they kept in a small basket bolted to the wall by the shoe closet—on his palm after he’d unlaced his running shoes by the time Kiyoomi made his way to the kitchen.</p><p>As he dropped a filter into the coffee maker, Kiyoomi called, “<em>Okaeri</em>. You went jogging?” </p><p>Atsumu didn’t respond. He slid his feet into his house slippers and made his way inside.</p><p>Kiyoomi wondered if Atsumu had a hangover too. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” Kiyoomi asked again, louder this time. His head was in too bad a state to grind beans, so without guilt he retrieved Atsumu’s coffee tin (a gift from Kita Shinsuke) from the cupboard.</p><p>Still no response. He heard Atsumu walking upstairs to their room.</p><p>Going for a third attempt, Kiyoomi asked, “I’m making coffee. Do you want?”</p><p>Silence. </p><p>He pressed the large button on top of the coffee maker. It lit up and whirred to life, then started gurgling.</p><p>They’ve been dating for nine months and three weeks, long enough that Kiyoomi was familiar with Atsumu’s Moods. The difference was they didn’t live together during all those other times.</p><p>Kiyoomi’s worst in-person exposure to a full intensity Mood had been blessedly limited to one away game when Atsumu, voted pettiest man on the planet, unilaterally declared that Hinata would be his roommate for the night and they’d share a twin room. Miura-san, who handled accommodation for the team and staff, had to be roused from her peaceful slumber to badger everyone to switch their room assignments around. This happened in the middle of the night. Because of course, there was no way Kiyoomi was sharing a bed with Bokuto, even if the other man had said he was “totally cool with it.” </p><p>(When they were lying in a double bed together after they’d made up, Atsumu, unimpressed, said, “Why does she sleep so damn early anyway? It was like what, 8:45?” </p><p>Kiyoomi hummed in agreement as he pressed kisses into his jaw.)</p><p>Miura-san wasn’t here. Hinata would not come to take Atsumu away for the duration of Kiyoomi’s time out. This was on him. <em>He </em>fell in love with this man.</p><p>Last night Atsumu had been upset about something. It had something to do with last night’s game. Telling him how well he played didn’t ease whatever was eating at him. Asking him <em>twice</em> didn’t help. <em>What would help?</em></p><p>A soft thump sounded from somewhere in the apartment, breaking the silence. Then a second one, even softer. Kiyoomi turns to look.</p><p>Atsumu was standing against the railing of the mezzanine, looking right at him. Scattered below him was the entirety of Kiyoomi’s eleven-pair collection of sweatpants. He was particular (Atsumu: “anal”) about the fit so he loved every pair he owned. On a separate pile beside them, pulled out of each pair, their drawstrings. </p><p>Clearly, Atsumu did not get all <em>whatever the hell this is</em> done in the time it took to start the coffee maker. So <em>this</em> was what he was up to while Kiyoomi was sleeping?</p><p>“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi ground out, seething. “<em>What in the actual fuck.</em>” Behind him, the coffee maker screeched.</p><p>Still, Atsumu said nothing.</p><p>It started to rain outside.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Before they dated, two apartments ago, Kiyoomi was caught under a proper Tokyo monsoon downpour on his morning run. </p><p>He was on kilometer five of his usual eight when the sky dimmed from blue to gray in 57 steps. Then rain spurted from the sky as if a heavenly tap somewhere was cranked all the way. The force of the rainfall prickled his eyes.</p><p>He was on his usual route through the spacious park one station away from his apartment. As he slowed his pace, the brick path under his feet gave in and water gushed out from underneath. His feet were soaked. His sneakers felt tight and damp, like they were alive, clenching around his feet. They deposited damp onto his socks every time he took a step.</p><p>And his feet were cold. Once he realized this, the chill traveled up his entire body--his legs grew heavy, his stomach tensed, his chest tightened. His breaths were shorter and shorter.</p><p>Kiyoomi knew this was an impending panic attack. So he counted.</p><p>
  <em> In, one, two, three, four. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hold, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Out, one, two, three, four, five, six, seve, eight. </em>
</p><p>Again and again. He knew it by heart. </p><p>“Oy, Omi-kun,” called a voice to his left.</p><p>Kiyoomi turned to see Miya Atsumu. Until his death, he will deny under oath that he jumped away in surprise.</p><p>“Miya,” he said, curt.</p><p>Atsumu had a bright red umbrella, one of those large, unfoldable ones that banks gave away for their customers to keep in their cars. He said, “Don’t look at me like that, Omi-kun. I’m not the one standing under the rain. This an emo phase?” </p><p>Kiyoomi’s left temple throbbed. He stayed where he was. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Had a date,” he said. “A bad one. My car’s nearby.”</p><p>Kiyoomi knew of the artsy cafes that lined the perimeter of the park. Atsumu looked dressed for a date in one of them. He was wearing a deep plum fleece turtleneck that complemented his brown eyes. Kiyoomi tried not to think about the lines on Atsumu’s neck that lead to his Adam’s apple, hidden underneath the folded polo neck. </p><p>“So,” Atsumu broached, after Kiyoomi had been quiet for some time. “Ya staying here <em> or </em>?”</p><p>Kiyoomi felt the ice lodged in his chest start to thaw. He gingerly stepped under Atsumu’s umbrella, pulling into himself so their shoulders wouldn’t brush. Watching him, Atsumu looked way too pleased.</p><p>Kiyoomi was not like Atsumu in any significant way, except one.</p><p>He said, “Your car better be clean.”</p><p>He meant, <em>Thank you</em>.</p><p>Atsumu was unperturbed. He started walking towards the park exit. Kiyoomi followed, matching his steps. <em>For the shade</em>, he thought. </p><p>He ignored his squelching shoes.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Today, it was raining and they haven’t spoken in over four hours.</p><p>In the first hour, Kiyoomi gathered his clothes off the floor, went up to their room and threaded drawstrings back into 11 pairs of sweatpants. He considered yelling at his boyfriend. </p><p>At the height of his delirium while he tried to match which drawstring belonged to which pair, he’d convinced himself that he would lose if he broke the silence first.</p><p>In the second hour, Kiyoomi ambled downstairs with a laundry hamper full of all his newly mended sweatpants. He went to their washer-dryer stack, hidden in a tall cupboard by the kitchen. While the laundry was going, he made himself a cold cut sandwich. He took a paracetamol. He watered his plants. He pretended he was single and that he lived alone. </p><p>Past the third hour, he’d lain back in bed. He pretended to read Akaashi’s manga in their room while he listened intently for signs of life from Miya Atsumu downstairs.</p><p>There had been more slicing, something being clipped open, then the <em> snip </em>of the herb scissors (a kitchen tool so specialized it was, of course, a housewarming gift from Osamu). A cupboard opened again, then the clang of pots together. </p><p>The home speaker, still going, warned that major department store operators said last Monday their sales in May dived over 60 per—“<em>Shit</em>,” Atsumu cursed, then more clanging. </p><p>Kiyoomi fought back a smile. </p><p>Whatever of Kiyoomi’s nerves was still hanging together finally broke apart. </p><p><em>It was a mistake</em>, he decided, <em>to let Atsumu set the rules of engagement.</em> He pushed himself off the bed and walked downstairs. </p><p>Thunder started to rumble outside.</p><p>When Kiyoomi stopped in front of the kitchen, Atsumu had placed a saucepan over the stove and was tossing ingredients in—garlic, shallots, thyme. He was holding a wooden spoon in his other hand and stirring.</p><p>“Tell me what the fuck is wrong with you,” was Kiyoomi’s opener.</p><p>Atsumu, who knew exactly how to grind his gears, ignored him and kept stirring.</p><p>Kiyoomi did not want to hover in his own kitchen. So he decided to make coffee.</p><p>For the second time, he popped a filter into the Braun. He took Atsumu’s specialty coffee from Kita Shinsuke from the cupboard and relished scooping two tablespoons of ground beans out of it.</p><p>“Why are you angry at me, ‘Tsumu?” he asked while he poured water into the coffee maker. “What did I do?”</p><p>Atsumu still didn’t look at him. He was reading the printed recipe for Cheesy Cabbage Gratin he’d stuck with magic tape over the kitchen window. </p><p>Warmth bloomed in Kiyoomi’s chest. <em>Shut up</em>, he thought at it. <em>You deserter.</em></p><p>He pressed the button and the Braun gurgled to life in front of him. Then he turned his entire body to face his boyfriend. This was Kiyoomi’s primary rule of engagement: Direct attack.</p><p>“‘Tsumu, you’re my problem now,” he said. “I mean it. We’re together. I have to worry about you.”</p><p>Here he was pouring his heart out, and they were both wearing house clothes.</p><p>Atsumu finally turned to Kiyoomi, his eyes soft, and to break his long silence said, “You’re my problem too, Omi-kun.” </p><p><em>And so</em>, Kiyoomi thought, <em>the sweatpants will never be avenged.</em></p><p>He huffed, secretly pleased. The warmth in his chest had risen to his face. “You know everything that scares me, so why can’t you tell me this one thing that’s bothering you?” </p><p>Atsumu exhaled slowly (eight seconds), then said, “I’m afraid yer gonna leave me for Kageyama Tobio.” </p><p>He meant, <em>There are better setters than me, but please don’t leave. </em></p><p>Kiyoomi replied, “I won’t if you buy more of those running shorts.”</p><p>The world—the ever-present rumble of car engines, the pedestrians braving the rain, the <em>rain itself</em>—seemed to fade away. Last night, what Kiyoomi really wanted to do was kiss his boyfriend.</p><p>So he stepped close to Atsumu now, held his jaw and kissed him.</p><p>Atsumu was surprised, but leaned in anyway and opened his mouth. He was still absently stirring the gratin mix. </p><p>The coffee maker seemed to groan.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>narrator: actually atsumu's date in the café went rly well. he just decided to ghost that person the moment he saw sakusa in wet jogging clothes outside 🤟😔</p><p><a href="https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/cheesy-cabbage-gratin">recipe from ba</a>.</p><p>learn more about yield curves <a href="https://www.npr.org/2019/08/21/753185863/episode-934-two-yield-curve-indicators">here</a>.</p><p>If you've read this far, tysm &lt;3. Kudos and comments are appreciated. I have a <a href="https://twitter.com/alliseeispink">tiny twt</a> I mainly use to RT HQ things, but we can also talk abt sakuatsu there. I also have a <a href="https://curiouscat.qa/alliseeispink">cc</a> if you're inclined to ask me questions or send me prompts.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. heart, soul, body</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Atsumu goes on a date.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If this chapter has given you deja vu, sorry. Yes, I have posted it before. I just ended up deleting it bc I wasn't happy with the quality. But here it is again, revised. Thank you for your patience. Thank you to Ms. <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement">entremelement</a> for talking me into reposting this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Before they dated, one apartment ago, Atsumu was caught under a proper Tokyo monsoon downpour in a large, open park in Koto.</p><p>The park was wide, worn green lawns dotted with yellow wisteria trees and sliced through with serpentine paths made of gray bricks old enough to have a plaque of their own for remaining in the ground so long. Something about 18th century Japanese masonry. </p><p>He was under an oversized umbrella, bright red and printed with the logo of the bank that approved his and Osamu’s business loan three years ago. He’d kept it since then, usually shoved somewhere in his car. The rain fell in sheets, the downpour pounding a staccato rhythm above his head. <em> Thank the gods</em>, he thought, <em> I didn’t leave it today </em>.</p><p>The gods were Osamu who warned him on FaceTime earlier that day to bring an umbrella with him. </p><p>It was 32 minutes into their call, after Atsumu had emptied his closet to find the armful of clothes that were suitable in non-volleyball situations, then put each one in frame for Osamu’s inspection. They’d settled on a deep plum fleece turtleneck from mom with dark wash jeans and his black patent Dr. Martens.</p><p>The impending event he knew he was trying too hard for was his first real, official date. As in the kind where two people agree to meet somewhere and do something hopefully fun to see if they liked each other enough to do it all again somewhere else. (If he loosened the definition to include two people dragging each other out of a bar at 1 AM to do fun, consensual things in a discreet love hotel nearby and then never meet again, then he’s had a few. But he’d always been honest to a fault, even with himself.)</p><p>“‘Tsumu, I’m serious,” said Osamu. “Bring an umbrella. One big enough for two people.” </p><p>“Why? The weather app says 20% chance of rain only.”</p><p>Suddenly grim, Osamu looked right at the lens of his front camera all the way in Kobe and said, “Listen ‘Tsumu. If this works out grandma will stop badgerin’ me ta date Moika-san’s daughter. Ya think I’m gonna bet that future on an 80% chance of good weather?”</p><p>Atsumu cackled, comfortable with the knowledge that their grandma had long given up on him. </p><p>“Ya asshole,” Osamu said, which only made Atsumu laugh harder. “Shaddup ‘Tsumu, stop fucken laughing!”</p><p>When they were kids, the sidewalk outside their apartment was only slightly less old than the walkways in the park and though not plaque-worthy, also made of bricks slotted together without mortar in between.</p><p>When it rained, the walk home from school was precarious. One wrong step could send dormant rainwater that pooled underneath the bricks gushing out unbidden, plunging shoes into secret puddles. He and Osamu made a game of it, pretending they were manga heroes crossing a lethal minefield. Whoever lost toddled back home with wet shoes and soaked socks, which was punishment enough.</p><p>In the park, under his umbrella, Atsumu could feel the 18th century bricks sinking under his feet and eyed the ground, wary. He thought, <em> I hope her boots will be ok </em>.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Mizusawa Mina had shown up to their first date three hours ago wearing brown suede Chelsea boots.</p><p>When Atsumu got to the park before she arrived, the sun was shining and the sky was clear and blue, with fat clouds that looked like children’s drawings, all white and fluffy.  Standing there, with his giant red bank umbrella tucked underneath his arm pressed to his side, he regretted listening to Osamu.</p><p>They’d agreed to meet at a cafe tucked in one of the wide forking paths of the Koto park called <b> <em>retro future.</em></b>, stylization intentional. It looked like the dozens of identical kitschy cafes that popped up in Tokyo at alarming speed as if they came from a catalogue, their parts delivered same-day to a construction site and then assembled like lifesize lego overnight.  </p><p>Case in point, the white-and-millennial pink pretty as a picture awning he was standing under, the fake neon sign behind him bearing the cafe’s name, the hundreds of plastic flowers adorning one wall he could spot from outside. They paled in comparison to the shower of yellow wisteria petals that covered the park when the wind picked up.</p><p>Mizusawa walked right up to him and extended her hand for him to take. Her handshake was firm. The first thing she said to him was, “I hope it doesn’t rain. I don’t wanna ruin my shoes,” eyes darting to his inconspicuous umbrella. They were bright with mischief. </p><p>Atsumu blushed. <em> Already gettin’ teased at the literal first minute</em>, he thought, trying to tamp down his embarrassment.</p><p>He said, “Ya’ll thank me later if it rains,” then flashed a smile. The familiar warmth of self-satisfaction rose in his chest when he saw her cheeks color. <em> Look at me, </em> he thought, <em> not socially noxious after all </em>. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The date had been Kisaragi Sumi’s idea. She was in the MSBY Black Jackals PR &amp; Events team, snarky, in possession of legendary alcohol tolerance, and Atsumu’s favorite companion at all their official afterparties. A week ago, at an offseason press cocktail afterparty (which was the same party, just without the press), they were together again at a cocktail table with six empty champagne flutes between them. It was past midnight on a Friday, so many of the attendees were chugging water in a bid to be sober enough to catch the last train. </p><p>Kisaragi was working on the seventh flute of champagne while Atsumu looked on at Akaashi guiding a glass of water to Bokuto’s lips. Bokuto was staring at his boyfriend wide-eyed like he was the only person there. (Inunaki had challenged Bokuto to an ill-advised contest involving tequila shots. Atsumu’d warned him not to do it, not that anyone ever listened to him.)</p><p>“That’s so gross,” Atsumu said. Then, “Sumi-chaaaaan. Why am I so fucken single?”  </p><p>Beside him, Kisaragi snorted. “Talk to Sakusa already.” </p><p>“What?” he said, turning to look at her. “Ya think Omi-kun has <em> friends </em>to set me up with? Komori’s not really my type.” She stared back at him with pitying eyes, like a Dunce cone had sprouted from his head. He didn’t get it, but he still refused to look away first. He feared a lot of things, but not prolonged eye contact.</p><p>“You know what, <em> fine </em>,” she said, breaking off from their staring contest first. “I’m sure I have some friends I can bamboozle into dating a tall, good-looking professional athlete, noxious personality be damned.” </p><p>Atsumu, smirking, said, “What I’m hearing is that I’m hot and great at my job.” She plucked an hor d'oeuvres from one of the last three trays still flitting around the party and tried to toss it at his head.</p><p>The day after, she texted, <em> Men or women? </em> , to which he replied, <em> Doesn’t matter. Either </em>. </p><p>Two days later, he got a text from her again that said, <em> Her name’s Mizusawa Mina, she was my junior in college. Here’s her number: </em> ▋▋▋▋▋▋▋▋▋▋<em>. She likes cute cafes and things. Don’t be late. Wear your human disguise. </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Outside the cafe, the wind picked up and with it a hale of yellow petals. Mizusawa smiled at the sight. She had dimples. It reminded him of feeling… something, something he couldn’t place. </p><p>They walked side by side to the cafe entrance, then Atsumu held the door open for her. When she turned to go inside, he saw parallel moles on her face, one near her tear duct and another by the bridge of her nose. He stared at them, transfixed.</p><p>The thought came to him, unbidden, that he hadn’t seen Sakusa since the press cocktail. </p><p>They shared a table during the event, which Atsumu <em> loved </em>because watching the microexpressions flit across Sakusa’s face while he was contractually obligated to spend time with the public was always a delight. He watched Sakusa’s forehead convulse as a brave reporter, who was doing a longform magazine profile on the team, shoved a recorder too close to his mask-less face and felt genuine joy. </p><p>The tell, Atsumu figured out months ago, was a twitch between his brows as he internally tramped down his irritation and restrained himself from being the absolute bastard Atsumu knew he was. It made the beauty marks on his forehead move. The odd blue-hued lights in the rented venue deepend the shadows on the crease between his brows, and Atsumu watched it disappear and reappear at every shift in Sakusa’s stony expression.</p><p>Feeling merciful, Atsumu intervened. “Hey, weren’t you looking for Meian? There he is.” He nodded towards their captain, who seemed to be navigating the crowd towards a group of their assistant coaches huddled together with beers. </p><p>When the reporter left to tail Meian, Atsumu wore the most solemn expression he could muster and said, “You’ve worked hard, Omi-kun.” </p><p>Unmoved, Sakusa turned to him and said, “Thank you,” in a tone a child would use to apologize while a stern adult had a hand on their shoulder. </p><p>When the afterparty was set to start, Sakusa’d slunk away complaining he needed to sleep by 10. </p><p>
  <em> Why don’t we talk more in the offseason?  </em>
</p><p>“Miya-san?” Mizusawa called, pulling his mind back from wherever the hell it’d wandered. She was inside now, waiting for him to follow her. God he’d been standing outside too long, staring. <em> She must think I’m a creep </em>. “Comin’, sorry,” he said, following her inside. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The fake flowers on the wall ran all the way up to the high ceiling and down again to the drooping light fixture at the center of the room. There were nondescript prints on the other walls, deers with flowers and the like. Atsumu’d led them to a pair of purple armchairs behind the stairs up to the mezzanine for some privacy. He left the red umbrella leaning on the wall.</p><p>When they walked up to the counter to order earlier, the barista told them they were doing half-off on large lattes with different art on the foam. “I love those,” Mizusawa said offhandedly. Feeling bold, Atsumu said, “Let’s try all of them. I’ll pay.” Her cheeks colored again.</p><p>In grade school, Atsumu was the teacher’s favorite. Mom came back from report card days with Atsumu’s behavioral report filled with positive comments about his participation, attention and drive, while Osamu’s said that he was distant and ‘could use more follow-up’ when it came to schoolwork. He was rearing to gloat, but Osamu turned to him before he could start and said “Yer not smarter than me, yer just a suck-up,” then left him alone. </p><p>In high school, as Osamu watched him melting chocolates into a pot with a dubious look the night before White Day, it became, “‘Tsumu y’know ya got this pathological need to get a positive reaction from people, and it’s never about them.” (He’d said then, “Wow, <em> pathological </em>, did Kita teach you that?”)</p><p>He thought of that as he looked at Mizusawa’s pink cheeks from the corner of his eye while the frazzled barista loaded six large hot latte mugs into a tray for two of them. <em> Can’t do anythin’ ‘bout it now </em> , he thought. <em> Already swiped my card</em>.</p><p>Before she let him take a sip of any drink, she took pictures of the mugs in an appealing flatlay on the squat, circle table between their armchairs. When she saw him watching, she blushed again and said, “I love Instagram so much. Lame, huh?” </p><p>“Nah,” he said. “So do I. Plus if anyone here judges ya for taking photos, fuck ‘em, look at this place, it’s all Instagram bait in here.” She laughed again, with dimples.  And again, that… something. </p><p>She worked in a trading company now, but was on the volleyball varsity team in high school, so they briefly talked about the sport that had overrun Atsumu’s body and mind like knotweeds for 15 years. He asked, “So who’s yer fave team?” and her eyes darted away, her cheeks coloring again. With some prodding, she said, “I love Ushijima.” Love, she said.<em> Figures. Like everyone else on the fucken planet. </em></p><p>Sakusa did, too. He called Ushijima ‘Wakatoshi.’ <em> Gods </em>. </p><p>He’d asked Sakusa once, “Omi, when d’ya get so close with Ushijima?” </p><p>Sakusa, succinct as always, replied, “In middle school and high school. Training camps, Nationals, Spring Interhigh.” Atsumu had enough self-respect not to say, <em> We did all those things together in high school, too. </em></p><p>“Ooh, this one’s matcha,” Mizusawa said, taking a sip from a drink with Tom Nook on the foam.</p><p>Atsumu blinked back to attention, stretched his mouth into a smile, and said, “Let me try.” </p><p>Conversation passed quickly over copious amounts of coffee. They talked about good restaurants in the area, where else to take nice Instagram photos, the movies they’d seen recently, the latest chapters of <em> One Piece </em>. Perfectly normal first date topics. His brain felt like an engine clattering in his skull. </p><p>He had to tell himself off in his mind for staring at her dimples. </p><p>Two hours later, he looked down at his jittery hands, then looked up, finding Mizusawa doing the same. Their eyes met and they both laughed. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>In the end, they finished five and a half lattes in three and a half hours.</p><p>“I’ll walk you to the station,” Atsumu offered as he stood up, thinking asking to drive her home was too forward. </p><p>“God, my knees,” said Mizusawa. True enough, her legs were shaking as she moved to get up. Atsumu offered her a hand. She took it and pulled herself up, her cheeks coloring again.</p><p>He said, “You can use the umbrella as a cane on the way,” and she laughed again. </p><p>(She didn’t. It returned in its place caught under his arm, once again useless.)</p><p>Outside, the sky was just as blue as it had been earlier, the clouds  as white and fluffy, though they seemed closer to the ground. <em> Maybe it’s all the coffee </em>, thought Atsumu.</p><p>The wind brought with it the yellow petals again and Mizusawa’s smile.</p><p>Another unbidden thought came, this time <em> I’ve never seen Omi-kun smile </em> . There were rumors from Itachiyama that he had dimples. <em> It’s crazy that I’ve known him for a decade and I still haven’t seen him smile full on.  </em></p><p>His id supplied him with different smiles for the bottom half of Sakusa’s face, like one of those baby books with bisected cardboard pages to mix and match silly faces. Did he have terrible teeth? <em> Impossible. That man must floss after every meal. </em> </p><p>Alone in his head, Atsumu imagined the space between Sakusa’s brows at rest, no threat of a twitch forthcoming, the other man looking right at him. Imaginary Sakusa’s lips curved up in a closed lipped smile that showed his dimples. <em> That’s it </em> , he thought, <em> I hope that’s the one. </em></p><p>“Miya-kun,” came Mizusawa’s voice from out of the void. “We’re here.” </p><p>Atsumu turned to look at her. They were standing side by side, in front of the windowed gray box with the stairs going down the series of underground walkways leading to the station. <em> Right</em>, Atsumu thought, <em> It’s right by the park</em>. He silently thanked the gods his feet still took him where he needed to go while he was prying open the secret crevices in his mind, apparently filled with Sakusa Kiyoomi smiling. </p><p>Beside the stairs was an escalator for commuters traveling up, its only passenger an old lady with a canvas bag over her shoulder. They must have obviously looked like a couple about to part ways because she was studiously ignoring them, her head turned towards the windows, enjoying the view of the yellow flowers. She cleared her throat when she got to the landing and speed walked to the park, her head still turned.</p><p>While this was happening, Atsumu and Mizusawa stood beside each other two feet apart, avoiding one another’s eyes. When the old lady was well into the walkway towards the park, out of earshot, they turned to each other and laughed again. </p><p>Still smiling, she said, “I had a great time.”</p><p>Atsumu, still gathering his thoughts back into his head, instinctively replied, “Me too.”</p><p>She smiled again, but didn’t turn around to go down the stairs. So they stood there, looking at each other, a beat too long.</p><p>Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “So bye.” She stood beside him for another seven seconds before she made her way down the stairs.</p><p>Watching her retreating back, it occured to Atsumu that she was waiting for him to do something. <em> Fuck </em>. He called, “Hey, I’ll call you ok? Maybe it’ll rain next time!”</p><p>From about a third of the way down the stairs, she turned to look at him. She smiled again and said, “Ok. I’ll hold you to that.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu decided to pass through the park back to his car. It was a beautiful day and the yellow flowers were pretty to look at even on the ground, so he set a leisurely pace. He was wishing he’d asked Mizusawa to take pictures, when before his eyes, the sky dimmed from blue to gray in 37 steps. He thought, <em> Osamu that seer bastard</em>. </p><p>The whiff of petrichor he inhaled gave at most three minutes notice before the rain came.</p><p>It fell in sheets. His umbrella vibrated in his hand from the pour. The 18th century bricks gave under his feet, but whatever imagined minefield he stepped on couldn’t seep into his boots.</p><p>He quickened his steps toward the exit, but when he turned a corner to another path, he saw Sakusa Kiyoomi. It couldn’t be anyone else. Atsumu’s id supplied, <em> I could pick out that waist in a lineup. </em> </p><p>Sakusa was standing under the rain, his shoulders rising and falling slowly, looking down at his feet.</p><p>Atsumu watched him from afar, waiting for him to run to shelter, but he just stood there.</p><p>Atsumu’s legs directed him towards Sakusa, unbidden.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>This was his first memory. </p><p>When he was four, he ran to hide in his grandma’s skirt, upset. It must have been in their old apartment in Kobe, outside where the brick sidewalk was, but he couldn’t remember what the room they were in looked like. He only remembered her long, purple skirt. </p><p>He tried to hide underneath it, crying a torrent.</p><p>She pulled him into her lap and asked, “What’s wrong, ‘Tsumu-kun?” </p><p>He wailed back, “I dunno” and kept weeping. He kept at it for an hour. She didn’t lose her patience, and held him closer.</p><p>“It’s okay, ‘Tsumu-kun,” she whispered to his temple. “Your mind just needs a little time to catch up with your heart.”  She wiped his tears away with her hanky. It smelled like yuzu blossoms.</p><p>“I’m sure when it’s ready, whatever it is will spring from your head, fully formed.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p><em> Oh. </em> </p><p>Where were these feelings hiding? </p><p>How did they gush out from underneath him, a complete surprise?</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Atsumu knew it was bad because he was an arms length away from Sakusa and he still wasn’t noticed. “Oy, Omi-kun,” he called, and hand to the gods tall, lanky Sakusa jumped in surprise, maybe two feet into the air. Then he glared and the crease between his brows stayed. </p><p>“Don’t look at me like that, Omi-kun. I’m not the one standing under the rain. This an emo phase?”</p><p>Sakusa rubbed his finger on his temple and stayed where he was. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Had a date,” Atsumu said. “A bad one. My car’s nearby.”</p><p>They stood there, looking at each other, a beat too long.</p><p>“So,” Atsumu broached, “Ya stayin’ here or?”</p><p>The shadow between Sakusa’s brows smoothed away, and gingerly stepped under Atsumu’s umbrella, pulling into himself. Then he said, “Your car better be clean.”</p><p>Atsumu could not stop himself from grinning. “I figure I have all the power in this situation, Omi-kun,” he said, then he started walking towards the exit. Sakusa followed.</p><p>He thought, <em> Sorry ‘Samu, enjoy that date with Moika-san’s daughter</em>.</p><p>Beside him, he could hear Sakusa’s shoes squelching. </p><p>If Sakusa had been any other person, Atsumu would’ve offered his dry shoes and dry socks. <em> I wouldn’t mind walking on the brick path barefoot, for him. </em></p><p>But he wasn’t. </p><p>So they kept walking, conscious of the distance between them, not touching.</p><p>(He doesn’t call.)</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! (Again!) </p><p>I have an <a href="https://twitter.com/alliseeispink">HQ twt</a> if you're so inclined to check it out. You can send me q's/prompts at <a href="https://curiouscat.qa/alliseeispink">cc</a> too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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